When the card was brought in to me, I looked upon it with some
misgiving, for I scented a commercial transaction, and, although such
cases are lucrative enough, nevertheless I, Eugène Valmont, formerly
high in the service of the French Government, do not care to be
connected with them. They usually pertain to sordid business affairs,
presenting little that is of interest to a man who, in his time, has
dealt with subtle questions of diplomacy upon which the welfare of
nations sometimes turned.
The name of Bentham Gibbes is familiar to everyone, connected as it is
with the much-advertised pickles, whose glaring announcements in crude
crimson and green strike the eye throughout Great Britain, and shock
the artistic sense wherever seen. Me! I have never tasted them, and
shall not so long as a French restaurant remains open in London. But I
doubt not they are as pronounced to the palate as their advertisement
is distressing to the eye. If then, this gross pickle manufacturer
expected me to track down those who were infringing upon the recipes
for making his so-called sauces, chutneys, and the like, he would find
himself mistaken, for I was now in a position to pick and choose my
cases, and a case of pickles did not allure me. 'Beware of
imitations,' said the advertisement; 'none genuine without a facsimile
of the signature of Bentham Gibbes.' Ah, well, not for me were either
the pickles or the tracking of imitators. A forged cheque! yes, if you
like, but the forged signature of Mr. Gibbes on a pickle bottle was out
of my line. Nevertheless, I said to Armand:--
'Show the gentleman in,' and he did so.
To my astonishment there entered a young man, quite correctly dressed
in the dark frock-coat, faultless waistcoat and trousers that
proclaimed a Bond Street tailor. When he spoke his voice and language
were those of a gentleman.
'Monsieur Valmont?' he inquired.
'At your service,' I replied, bowing and waving my hand as Armand
placed a chair for him, and withdrew.
'I am a barrister with chambers in the Temple,' began Mr. Gibbes, 'and
for some days a matter has been troubling me about which I have now
come to seek your advice, your name having been suggested by a friend
in whom I confided.'
'Am I acquainted with him?' I asked.
'I think not,' replied Mr. Gibbes; 'he also is a barrister with
chambers in the same building as my own. Lionel Dacre is his name.'
'I never heard of him.'
'Very likely not. Nevertheless, he recommended you as a man who could
keep his own counsel, and if you take up this case I desire the utmost
secrecy preserved, whatever may be the outcome.'
I bowed, but made no protestation. Secrecy is a matter of course with
me.
The Englishman paused for a few moments as if he expected fervent
assurances; then went on with no trace of disappointment on his
countenance at not receiving them.
'On the night of the twenty-third, I gave a little dinner to six
friends of mine in my own rooms. I may say that so far as I am aware
they are all gentlemen of unimpeachable character. On the night of the
dinner I was detained later than I expected at a reception, and in
driving to the Temple was still further delayed by a block of traffic
in Piccadilly, so that when I arrived at my chambers there was barely
time for me to dress and receive my guests. My man Johnson had
everything laid out ready for me in my dressing-room, and as I passed
through to it I hurriedly flung off the coat I was wearing and
carelessly left it hanging over the back of a chair in the
dining-room, where neither Johnson nor myself noticed it until my
attention was called to it after the dinner was over, and everyone
rather jolly with wine.
'This coat contains an inside pocket. Usually any frock-coat I wear at
an afternoon reception has not an inside pocket, but I had been rather
on the rush all day.
'My father is a manufacturer whose name may be familiar to you, and I
am on the directors' board of his company. On this occasion I took a
cab from the city to the reception I spoke of, and had not time to go
and change at my rooms. The reception was a somewhat bohemian affair,
extremely interesting, of course, but not too particular as to
costume, so I went as I was. In this inside pocket rested a thin
package, composed of two pieces of cardboard, and between them rested
five twenty-pound Bank of England notes, folded lengthwise, held in
place by an elastic rubber band. I had thrown the coat across the
chair-back in such a way that the inside pocket was exposed, leaving
the ends of the notes plainly recognisable.
'Over the coffee and cigars one of my guests laughingly called
attention to what he termed my vulgar display of wealth, and Johnson,
in some confusion at having neglected to put away the coat, now picked
it up, and took it to the reception-room where the wraps of my guests
lay about promiscuously. He should, of course, have hung it up in my
wardrobe, but he said afterwards he thought it belonged to the guest
who had spoken. You see, Johnson was in my dressing-room when I threw
my coat on the chair in the corner while making my way thither, and I
suppose he had not noticed the coat in the hurry of arriving guests,
otherwise he would have put it where it belonged. After everybody had
gone Johnson came to me and said the coat was there, but the package
was missing, nor has any trace of it been found since that night.'
'The dinner was fetched in from outside, I suppose?'
'Yes.'
'How many waiters served it?'
'Two. They are men who have often been in my employ on similar
occasions, but, apart from that, they had left my chambers before the
incident of the coat happened.'
'Neither of them went into the reception-room, I take it?'
'No. I am certain that not even suspicion can attach to either of the
waiters.'
'Your man Johnson--?'
'Has been with me for years. He could easily have stolen much more
than the hundred pounds if he had wished to do so, but I have never
known him to take a penny that did not belong to him.'
'Will you favour me with the names of your guests, Mr. Gibbes?'
'Viscount Stern sat at my right hand, and at my left Lord Templemere;
Sir John Sanclere next to him, and Angus McKeller next to Sanclere.
After Viscount Stern was Lionel Dacre, and at his right, Vincent
Innis.'
On a sheet of paper I had written the names of the guests, and noted
their places at the table.
'Which guest drew your attention to the money?'
'Lionel Dacre.'
'Is there a window looking out from the reception-room?'
'Two of them.'
'Were they fastened on the night of the dinner party?'
'I could not be sure; very likely Johnson would know. You are hinting
at the possibility of a thief coming in through a reception-room
window while we were somewhat noisy over our wine. I think such a
solution highly improbable. My rooms are on the third floor, and a
thief would scarcely venture to make an entrance when he could not but
know there was a company being entertained. Besides this, the coat was
there less than an hour, and it appears to me that whoever stole those
notes knew where they were.'
'That seems reasonable,' I had to admit. 'Have you spoken to any one
of your loss?';
'To no one but Dacre, who recommended me to see you. Oh, yes, and to
Johnson, of course.'
I could not help noting that this was the fourth or fifth time Dacre's
name had come up during our conversation.
'What of Dacre?' I asked.
'Oh, well, you see, he occupies chambers in the same building on the
ground floor. He is a very good fellow, and we are by way of being
firm friends. Then it was he who had called attention to the money, so
I thought he should know the sequel.'
'How did he take your news?'
'Now that you call attention to the fact, he seemed slightly troubled.
I should like to say, however, that you must not be misled by that.
Lionel Dacre could no more steal than he could lie.'
'Did he show any surprise when you mentioned the theft?'
Bentham Gibbes paused a moment before replying, knitting his brows in
thought.
'No,' he said at last; 'and, come to think of it, it appeared as if he
had been expecting my announcement.'
'Doesn't that strike you as rather strange, Mr. Gibbes?'
'Really my mind is in such a whirl, I don't know what to think. But
it's perfectly absurd to suspect Dacre. If you knew the man you would
understand what I mean. He comes of an excellent family, and he
is--oh! he is Lionel Dacre, and when you have said that you have made
any suspicion absurd.'
'I suppose you caused the rooms to be thoroughly searched. The packet
didn't drop out and remain unnoticed in some corner?'
'No; Johnson and myself examined every inch of the premises.'
'Have you the numbers of the notes?'
'Yes; I got them from the Bank next morning. Payment was stopped, and
so far not one of the five has been presented. Of course, one or more
may have been cashed at some shop, but none have been offered to any
of the banks.'
'A twenty-pound note is not accepted without scrutiny, so the chances
are the thief may find some difficulty in disposing of them.'
'As I told you, I don't mind the loss of the money at all. It is the
uncertainty, the uneasiness caused by the incident which troubles me.
You will comprehend how little I care about the notes when I say that
if you are good enough to interest yourself in this case, I shall be
disappointed if your fee does not exceed the amount I have lost.'
Mr. Gibbes rose as he said this, and I accompanied him to the door
assuring him that I should do my best to solve the mystery. Whether he
sprang from pickles or not, I realised he was a polished and generous
gentleman, who estimated the services of a professional expert like
myself at their true value.
I shall not set down the details of my researches during the following
few days, because the trend of them must be gone over in the account
of that remarkable interview in which I took part somewhat later.
Suffice it to say that an examination of the rooms and a close
cross-questioning of Johnson satisfied me he and the two waiters were
innocent. I became certain no thief had made his way through the
window, and finally I arrived at the conclusion that the notes were
stolen by one of the guests. Further investigation convinced me that
the thief was no other than Lionel Dacre, the only one of the six in
pressing need of money at this time. I caused Dacre to be shadowed,
and during one of his absences made the acquaintance of his man
Hopper, a surly, impolite brute, who accepted my golden sovereign
quickly enough, but gave me little in exchange for it. While I
conversed with him, there arrived in the passage where we were talking
together a huge case of champagne, bearing one of the best-known names
in the trade, and branded as being of the vintage of '78. Now I knew
that the product of Camelot Frères is not bought as cheaply as British
beer, and I also had learned that two short weeks before Mr. Lionel
Dacre was at his wits' end for money. Yet he was still the same
briefless barrister he had ever been.
On the morning after my unsatisfactory conversation with his man
Hopper, I was astonished to receive the following note, written on a
dainty correspondence card:--
'3 and 4 Vellum Buildings,
'Inner Temple, E.C.
'Mr. Lionel Dacre presents his compliments to Monsieur Eugène
Valmont, and would be obliged if Monsieur Valmont could make
it convenient to call upon him in his chambers tomorrow
morning at eleven.'
* * * * *
Had the young man become aware that he was being shadowed, or had the
surly servant informed him of the inquiries made? I was soon to know.
I called punctually at eleven next morning, and was received with
charming urbanity by Mr. Dacre himself. The taciturn Hopper had
evidently been sent away for the occasion.
'My dear Monsieur Valmont, I am delighted to meet you,' began the
young man with more of effusiveness than I had ever noticed in an
Englishman before, although his very next words supplied an
explanation that did not occur to me until afterwards as somewhat
far-fetched. 'I believe we are by way of being countrymen, and,
therefore, although the hour is early, I hope you will allow me to
offer you some of this bottled sunshine of the year '78 from _la belle
France_, to whose prosperity and honour we shall drink together. For
such a toast any hour is propitious,' and to my amazement he brought
forth from the case I had seen arrive two days before, a bottle of
that superb Camelot Frères '78.
'Now,' said I to myself, 'it is going to be difficult to keep a clear
head if the aroma of this nectar rises to the brain. But tempting as
is the cup, I shall drink sparingly, and hope he may not be so
judicious.'
Sensitive, I already experienced the charm of his personality, and
well understood the friendship Mr. Bentham Gibbes felt for him. But I
saw the trap spread before me. He expected, under the influence of
champagne and courtesy, to extract a promise from me which I must find
myself unable to give.
'Sir, you interest me by claiming kinship with France. I had
understood that you belonged to one of the oldest families of
England.'
'Ah, England!' he cried, with an expressive gesture of outspreading
hands truly Parisian in its significance. 'The trunk belongs to
England, of course, but the root--ah! the root--Monsieur Valmont,
penetrated the soil from which this wine of the gods has been drawn.'